


A Dream That Died

by BackForBreakfast



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Angst, Bad Ending, Character Death, Feel free to read this as platonic or more, Gen, I think both interpretations are valid, M/M, Post-Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 18:37:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11236848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BackForBreakfast/pseuds/BackForBreakfast
Summary: Python dreamed of these moments often. And then he would open his eyes, and Forsyth was gone.A take on Python's 'bad ending', when Forsyth dies prior to the end of the game.





	A Dream That Died

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for your interest in this story. This is actually my first work on AO3, so I'm a little nervous! I posted a first draft of this on ff.net a week ago while waiting for my AO3 invite to come through, so I'm excited to share the final version with you here.
> 
> Forsyth and Python quickly became two of my favourite characters from Shadows of Valentia, and their endings were so heartbreaking that I just had to write about them. I think that both endings can be interpreted in many different ways, and I hope you enjoy my interpretation. I know there have been some fantastic ones already!
> 
> For reference, this is Python's bad ending, as seen in-game:  
> "Python accepted a knighthood from the One Kingdom, growing into a new man who worked diligently—almost as if possessed by Forsyth. Sadly, he died a few short years later while fighting to suppress a rebellion, his wounds claiming him while he was far too young."

Alm once asked Python how he and Forsyth became friends. Python shrugged off the question at first; he had never really thought about it, and muttered that it had just _happened_ , he supposed. But when he did think about it, it all just seemed to make sense.

Forsyth’s father was soft-spoken - a calm, studious man who kept records for the local lord. While he had inherited his father’s penchant for detail, Forsyth was different in almost every other way: passionate, loud, and furiously enthusiastic. The other boys in the village teased him for it. They ran away when they saw him coming, and laughed at him behind closed doors.

All except one.

When he wasn’t sleeping, Python could be found lounging among the orange groves, tossing stones at the hanging fruit. His father, a hardworking carpenter, grew frustrated with his idleness. Anyone could see the boy had talent. He was good with his hands – any items he reluctantly crafted in his father’s workshop were proof enough of that – but what ambition the young Forsyth had in droves, he lacked entirely.

So when Forsyth approached him, asking if he’d ventured outside the village, if he’d ever seen a knight, if Python was his _real_ name, he only smiled, and let the boy sit down beside him.

Forsyth was a voracious reader, often smuggling books from his father’s library into the fields and forests outside their village. Curled up under the shade of a tree, he would read to Python, less worried about whether he was listening and just happy to be _with_ someone. Python, head and nose thick with the summer air, fell asleep to the sound of military strategy, of tales of great knights and acts of gallantry.

Python dreamed of these moments often.

And then he would open his eyes, and Forsyth was gone.

 

* * *

 

Zofia Castle was cold in the winter. The soldiers laughed about it – said that Mila should be raised from her slumber and her bounty returned, madness be damned – but at the heart of things, life was difficult, and getting no easier still. The castle courtyard lay under a blanket of day-old snow, punctuated only by a row of archery targets and a solitary, wilting oak tree.

Shivering, Python drew his bow. The shot careened past the target, catapulted off the dark stone of the castle wall and fell to the ground. He cursed under his breath and pulled another arrow from his quiver.

He hadn’t noticed the red-haired figure watching him from the doorway.

“You are concentrating too hard,” said Lukas. He stepped into the courtyard, his footsteps compacting the snow with a soft _crunch_. “You know you are better when you relax.”

Python did not respond. He released another shot, and once more the arrow missed.

Lukas tried again. “Python, it is not yet dawn,” he said, kneeling to collect the stray arrows from the ground – an arduous task in the dull light. “Another restless night, I fear?”

Python shrugged. “Perhaps. You’re not much of a late-riser yourself.”

Lukas scratched the back of his head. “I must admit, I too could not sleep.”

“The rebellion?”

Lukas nodded, “Indeed. I know the Kingdom is in its infancy, but such frequent insurgences are… troubling. I wonder if we will ever truly have peace.”

 _“Peace.”_ Python managed a bitter chuckle. “You know the trouble with peace, Lukas? It gives you time to think.”

Lukas rarely felt much emotion, but at this his heart sank; he once again realised this was not the Python he had known those few years prior, the man who yearned for the end of the war and a long sleep in some undisturbed corner. He looked much the same, of course, with that familiar mop of blue hair that fell over his forehead, his lanky yet well-toned frame. But as Lukas’ eye caught on Python’s battered green shoulder guard – _Forsyth’s_ shoulder guard – he couldn’t help but frown.

“You know, Python… your town is but two days’ ride from here. Perhaps you should go and visit. I am sure Sir Clive would be happy to grant you leave.”

“Oh, I’m sure he would,” scoffed Python. “Python, the laziest boy in the village – a knight of the One Kingdom, no less! The perfect message to send to the lower classes.” He shook his head, then paused for a moment. “No. There’s nothing for me there.”

Something snapped in him then, and Python swiftly snatched the arrows from Lukas’ grasp. Stuffing them into his quiver, he turned toward the entrance.

“Python—” Lukas made to follow him, but Python held up a firm hand.

As the archer disappeared into the castle, Lukas felt a bitter chill sweep over him. He shivered, and began to pick up the remaining arrows.

 

* * *

 

It was only once Duma fell that the damage became evident.

Although Python had been quieter since Forsyth’s death, he fought bravely in the battles that followed. But once their struggle was over, and they returned home to the open fields and welcome sights of Zofia, closed wounds began to bleed anew.

The others were surprised when Python accepted his knighthood; he had seemed content just to tag along on their little adventure, with no delusions of grandeur or glory. They all agreed that something changed in him that day. He rarely quipped or joked, and he took on a mantle of duty, a strict schedule that left little time for rest.

Whispers hung in the air: whispers that he was possessed by his fallen friend.

Python performed his duties tirelessly, with a dedication that even Clive found impressive. But where Forsyth had an endearing attitude to his hard work, Python seemed without passion, almost mechanical. Although the archer never said it, Lukas suspected it was easier this way. That it was easier to keep his mind occupied.

When Clive found him that winter’s night, Python was scrubbing his boots clean in front of the hearth. The room smelled faintly of smoke and dirt, more like a backwater town than a castle.

“Good evening,” Clive said cheerily, resisting the urge to wrinkle his nose.

Python looked up, then back at his boot. “Oh. Good evening… sir.”

Clive took a seat. “Please, Python. We are equals, are we not?”

Python grunted in response. “Old habits, I guess.” A still silence fell between them, and it was not unusual. Although Python’s work ethic would make Forsyth proud, he shared little of his admiration for the paladin – a fact of which they were both aware.

Surprisingly, it was Python who spoke next. _“Anyway,”_ he said, “I’m sure you didn’t come all the way over here just to tell me that, so is there something I can help you with?”

“Lukas told me he saw you this morning. He fears he has touched a nerve.”

“I’ve got plenty of ‘em.”

Clive’s voice took on a familiar sternness. “To be frank, I can’t say I disagree with him, Python. While your diligence is admirable, it’s taking its toll on the battlefield.”

Python picked up his other boot, spat into his cloth, and started to polish. Clive couldn’t help but notice the bags under his eyes, the way his hands shook a little with every motion.

“Python,” he continued, “I understand what you’ve gone through. Fernand… he and I were like brothers. We grew up together, and I… I watched him die in my arms.” His voice cracked a little. “It doesn’t get any easier. But you can’t change who you are because of it.”

Python had the urge to say something about Clive and Fernand’s noble upbringing and how it could not possibly compare – but he held his tongue. “Do you know why I joined the Deliverance?” he asked, still evading Clive’s gaze.

Clive smiled; Python rarely opened up about anything. “I must admit, I had often wondered.”

“I knew the whole idea was stupid. And believe me, I tried to talk him out of it, but you know how much of a dreamer he…” Python trailed off, then continued with renewed vigour. “I _joined_ ,” he said, “to keep my friend safe. But wouldn’t you know it, I couldn’t even do that. So now, if you’d let me, I’d like to keep making it up to him... _sir._ ” His words were laced with acid. _He admired people like you,_ he thought to himself, _and look where it got him._

Forsyth lay buried under a tree in Rigel. The area was dangerous and crawling with enemies; it was a hasty burial, as to stop moving meant certain ambush. Of everything, this was what Python hated the most: that lonely tree, touched not by the warm sun of Zofia but the cold air of a foreign land, miles away from the place he had called home. He could not stand the thought of Forsyth being so… _alone_.

Clive noticed his grimace. “You know, when you first joined our ranks, I didn’t think you cared much about anything.” He paused. “That wasn’t true, was it?”

Python did not look up.

“Very well.” Clive stood from his seat. “But I hope you’ll consider what I said. I am sure you understand that I am only looking out for my own.”

Python continued to scrub his boot, focusing on Clive’s footsteps echoing in the corridor, and trying not to think of where his dreams would take him.

 

* * *

 

It was summer, and a heady summer at that, when news of bandits reached the village. Python, now seventeen and a rather gangly thing, lay sprawled under a tree, clinging to the shade. It would have been the perfect place for a nap were it not for the voice in the distance.

_“Python!”_

_Oh, gods._ Python rolled onto his side and put his hands over his ears. It was only a matter of minutes before he felt a gentle kicking at his ribs.

“I knew I’d find you here,” said Forsyth, breathless. “Did you hear the news?”

Much to his father’s disapproval, Forsyth spent all his meagre earnings on the first lance and suit of armour he could afford. The armour was grey, clunky, and a little too big, and Python would tease him about it; say how he looked like the pill bugs that plagued their village’s farms. As he looked up at this metal carapace, he saw that Forsyth was smiling—and that was always dangerous.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing his side. “I heard.”

“Don’t you see? This is our chance!”

Python grunted. “Our chance to do what? Meet the end of some brigand’s sword? Doesn’t sound like much of a plan if you ask me.”

“Oh, sit around all you like,” said Forsyth, planting his lance into the ground with a firm _thump_. “But this is my opportunity to prove myself. To show my father – no, the whole village – what I can do.” He grimaced. “Don’t you understand?”

“Look, I ain’t gotta prove myself to no-one. You should know that by now.” Python gave a long stretch and sat up, scratching his back. “Besides, you won’t impress your old man with some fancy lance work.”

“Perhaps not,” said Forsyth. “But I can’t give up on my dream – not yet.” A moment of silence fell between them. “Are you coming?”

Python raised an eyebrow. “Do I have a choice?”

The battle was fierce, and without the help of the local militia they would have easily been overrun. Python stayed back and loosed his arrows from afar, always keeping one eye on his friend, who headed straight and enthusiastically into the fray. As the noise died down and the stragglers fled, Python found him doubled over beside a tree, a pool of vomit at his knees.

Python wrinkled his nose.

“Easy there.” He patted Forsyth’s back. “You okay, pal?”

Forsyth staggered to his feet, still clutching his stomach. “I… I think so.”

“You know, if you want to be a knight, you _might_ want to work on that constitution of yours.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m _saying,_ ” said Python, “that it’s probably not a good idea to up chunks after every battle. You could get it on some noble’s armour.”

Forsyth wiped his mouth with his armguard. “I’m sorry. I’ve just never seen death so… _up close_ before.” He was shaking, his bangs weighed down with sweat and his skin ghostly pale. His lance lay on the ground beside him, its point stained red with blood. Python frowned. Forsyth’s energy was boundless; to see him drained of it was strange.

“Hey, it’s alright.” He placed his hand on Forsyth’s shoulder. “But it _is_ part and parcel of the whole knight thing. You sure you’re cut out for this?”

Forsyth froze for a moment, then turned to face Python with a stare as sharp as any of his arrows. Python never forgot that stare. An eagerness burned in his eyes, a longing for something the archer would never quite understand.

“Okay, okay,” he groaned. Then he laughed, pointing at Forsyth’s ridiculous armour, “But you know what? Green would suit you better.”

 

* * *

 

Lukas was sitting in his tent when Python placed the fistful of rabbits under his nose.

“Where did you get these?” he asked, his voice tinted with surprise.

Python’s voice was flat. “Woods around here are full of ‘em.”

Lukas sighed. “That is dangerous work, Python. You realise we are in enemy territory.” He stood up, eager to avoid the hungry flies swarming around the rather emaciated carcasses. “Anyone would think you were trying to get yourself killed.”

Over the past few months, they had all noticed the insurgents becoming more confident. Leaders were emerging – opportunists who saw their chance to seize a part of this new kingdom – and wherever threats were cut down, new ones would sprout in their place. The latest rebellion was several miles east, far outside the confines of the castle, and their camp was anything but safe.

“Do you want them or not?”

Lukas frowned at him. “Python, for your sake, I beg of you to get some rest.” He looked away, out of the door and into the night. “I recall back in Rigel – that little village by the coast. You were nigh passed out on the ground outside that tavern. It took three of us just to drag you back to your tent.” He smiled. “After that, I fancied you could sleep anywhere.”

And Python knew he was right; that buried somewhere deep inside him was a man who just wanted to rest, to drift into a world of dreams where nothing else mattered. It had been good to leave the castle walls behind, and as he had watched its spires and barricades disappear into the distance, he felt something in him relax - if only for a moment. But the feeling was fleeting, and he soon began to slip back into his usual ways.

Perhaps the others saw it as diligence. But Python feared a darker truth; that if he fell asleep, he would never want to wake up.

 

* * *

 

Python yawned. And when Python yawned, he _yawned_. Forsyth said it could drown out the sound of an army. He felt oddly proud of that.

“Oh, you’re finally awake,” Forsyth growled. “Well, while you were out sampling the _local pleasures_ , I’ve been doing something a little more productive.” He sat in the corner of their tent, furiously scrubbing the dirt from his chest plate.

A wry smile crept onto Python’s face. “Oh, I doubt that.”

“Truly, you are the incarnation of Mila herself.” Forsyth shot him a glare, then continued polishing his armour. “It wouldn’t have hurt to have had some help, Python.”

Python laughed softly. “You know, this village ain’t half bad, by Rigelian standards. Maybe we should stay here a while. Visit the tavern, let your hair down… it’d do you some good.” _Or perhaps not,_ he thought. _Forsyth can’t hold his drink, after all._ _He’d probably spend the whole night gushing over Clive._

Forsyth ignored him. “We’re setting out today. Lukas says we’re to march on Rigel Falls.” He tossed Python his shoulder guard. It was a clumsy throw, but the archer caught it comfortably in one hand. “Good. You’ve still got your reflexes, at least.”

Python shrugged. “What can I say? I’m not just a pretty face.”

They fell silent as a thick blanket of rain pelted against the tent. In their little village, it would have been a welcome sound, but here it was cold and threatening, much like Rigel itself. Forsyth sighed. “What a day to march.”

“What’s the matter? Don’t tell me brave Sir Forsyth is scared.”

“No. It’s just…” He paused, and took in a short breath. “Every day, our enemies get stronger. Sir Clive has placed stock in me as his lieutenant. It’s a great honour, and I’m forever grateful for it, but… oh, I don’t know. I guess I’m just not sure I want to know how this all ends.”

Python’s breath caught a little at the mention of Forsyth’s dubious position; he had always harboured the opinion that Clive handed him the title of lieutenant out of pity rather than merit. He waved his hand dismissively. “Look, you came out here to be a knight, didn’t you? Well you know what? I never thought I’d say this, but… I’m starting to believe you can do it.”

Forsyth’s face lit up, and Python smiled.

“Don’t tell anyone, though. They’d never let me live it down if you got yourself killed or something.”

“Python, I—”

Before Forsyth could continue, the sound of footsteps neared the tent, and Lukas’ voice rang clear through the chill morning air. “Make yourselves ready, you two. We march at sunrise.”

Python grinned. “Been up for hours, Luke.”

 

* * *

 

The rebels were greater in number than even Clive had expected. They amassed on a hill, a few on horseback but the majority infantry, armed with anything they could find. Clive tried his usual gambit – his perfectly-rehearsed proclamation about how the One Kingdom would benefit them all. Python scoffed at his speech. _You’re talking to commoners, remember?_

And, as he had predicted, they were having none of it.

When the rebels began their charge, what followed could only be described as chaos. The knights stood firm, their wall of spears threatening to gouge anyone who dared come close. And so the rebels scattered into the forests. The makeshift infantry, poorly-armed but furiously determined, knew these woods well, and goaded the frightened horses from behind. Formations broke, and Python quickly became separated.

Although nowhere near as unwilling as he was years ago, Python was somewhat of a stranger to the front lines. His light armour was useless in direct combat, and outside of the dagger strapped to his thigh he had little in the way of self-defence.

He had not expected to come face-to-face with the enemy.

The boy – for he was in no way a man – must have been no older than sixteen. Dressed in little more than village clothes, he stood trembling, pointing his lance at Python with shaking hands. His unkempt hair fell loosely over his face, drenched with sweat and heavy with dirt.

Python stared back at him, poised to shoot but unable to move.

He saw Forsyth, a child of ten, reading stories to him while his head rested in his lap.

He saw Forsyth, a fresh-faced teenager, sneaking out of his father’s study to spar in the forest.

He saw Forsyth, slumped lifeless against a rock, his green armour muddied and dented beyond recognition.

Before he could react, a sharp pain ripped through his stomach. Agony exploded through his body, through every inch of him, and he gasped, tumbling into the mud. The boy looked down at him, eyes wide and terrified, his crude weapon quivering and bloody. And then, just as quickly, he was gone.

 

* * *

 

When Lukas found Python some five minutes later, he saw his padding had been slashed apart, and a deep wound sliced across his abdomen. A steady trickle of blood pooled onto a blanket of fallen leaves.

“Hold on, friend,” he said, in that reassuring way that only Lukas could. “I will find a healer.”

But as Lukas started to stand, Python gripped his arm.

“It’s alright,” Lukas whispered, kneeling once more and squeezing Python’s hand. Even now, his ever-calm voice showed no sign of wavering. Python looked at him intently, his breaths growing hoarser and more desperate, and Lukas could see the lines under his eyes, the dark, gaping shadows of a man much older than his twenties.

“Just let—let me—”

“Hush, Python,” Lukas said gently. “I understand.”

And then Python wasn’t looking at Lukas at all, but through him and over his shoulder, and Lukas knew he saw something, for he heard what he never thought he would hear again. Python started to laugh—not a cynical, bitter laugh, but a genuine sound, full of mirth and remembrance.

He looked back at Lukas, and smiled. “You… you always were… a good guy, Luke.”

Lukas smiled back at him. “Say hello from me, won’t you?”

Python’s breaths turned to gasps, gasps turned to coughs, and as the archer finally fell silent, Lukas felt something stir within him. He didn’t know quite what, but it was something – and something was good.

 

* * *

 

The following morning, the Knights of the One Kingdom set out for Rigel, to reunite two friends at a lonely tree atop a hill.

In the years that passed, the children from the local village would play under that tree, sparring with wooden weapons and resting under the shade of its boughs. Legend said there was a secret hidden there, but like all things it was lost with time, known only to those who strived to remember it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I really appreciate it! :)
> 
> I'd be interested in writing some more things involving these two (perhaps slightly more lighthearted!) or perhaps something with Berkut, another one of my favourites.


End file.
